He said,
"You wanna get a woman,
you got to be willing to punch her,
so willing that when you have to punch her,
punching her is the first thing to come to your mind,
and when you do punch her, you have no problem punching her.
Punching her is the easy thing, rather than holding back.
You never see wimps getting laid,
or, if they do, they have to be rich,
so the women come to him, and leech off his money.
Wives of rich men,
strippers at a strip club.
The same kind of person, really.
They leech off a man's money
because they can. If they were ugly,
they'd be fine with working at the supermarket,
but they happen to have a round ass,
so they shake it. And they get their pick of man.
Of poor men, only rapists get laid.
Of men, they are the only ones who really try.
The wonderful thing is that the women
tend to love these rapist types--if by accident.
Even if the ladies, once the relationship,
goes sour, would rather die than be in the room with him,
the initial attraction--that spark that led her to him--
comes from the same place that enables him to smother her with a pillow,
and call her dumb and ugly. The same spark that gets him to be funny,
and sweet, and so manly and strong is the spark
that gets him to place a bullet in her purse when
she's not looking, and to follow her to her work,
and be outside of her home when she's leaving to hang out with friends.
Women never bitch about boring, nice guys. Not after the break up.
They only bitch out the mean, abusive ones,
who stole their necklaces, and cheat on them with their best friends.
The women bitch because they liked those guys.
Maybe they still do.
They usually do.
The boring ones are forgotten, if they even existed.
Women only remember--and love--the men who'd give them black eyes."
"And what kind of man are you?" his friend said.
The man showed his wedding ring. "The punching kind."
"That's sick," his friend said.
"It's the truth, you virgin-faggot."
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
An undeveloped rant
Ladies and gentlemen, we live in a time when the revolutionaries are old. Their balls sag. Yes, we live in a time when the avant-garde has worked itself into the status quo. Because as way back as Ancient Greece old men said that the young disrespected the old. Because every century, the anti-christ loomed over the law-abiding citizens of this great world. The self-proclaimed revolutionaries wrestle the self-proclaimed protectors of old fashioned values. Yes, everyone is a hero, even you. Everyone a martyr, even you. A princess that needs saving, a knight in shining armor. Yes, we all play the roles destined for us, and strike at the dragon’s throat to take care of it all. Yes, yes, all you need do: save the world, you worthless ant. You one-out-of-billions. I am no prophet, but because I am as self-righteous, oily, dirty, congested, and sleepy as you, I see the threads which hold you together.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Dull Notes We Sing; "An excerpt"
A person is going to tell you a story. If they say it’s going to be very interesting, it’s going to suck. It might involve a quadriplegic midget prostitute, but she’ll get boring after a scene or two. Imagine a quadriplegic midget prostitute sweeping the floor. Really. Get back to me in an hour.
If you thought about her for more than 10 seconds, it’s because you cheated. You added in a family of cats, or had her talk to her pimp. Or you were trying to figure out how a quadriplegic could sweep a floor. Regardless, you’ve returned to me. She bored you. This is proof that novelty, like pain, produces numbness. You soon find a way to step back.
So these stories will not try to be interesting. They will in some way involve a homeless man with empty eye sockets, who could interest you for a moment. If you saw him in real life, you’d stare for a little, maybe clutch your purse, laugh, etc. You’d look at your friend or a street vendor, say, “wow, that guy is scary” and then go home, and forget about him by tomorrow morning. Not that you tried to forget…Still, you forget about best friends from 10th grade, forget about the faint scar on your right forearm, and forget about that documentary on theories on the ultimate fate of the universe, which scared you so bad when your were five that you hid yourself in the bathroom. Your family had to unlock the door with a hairpin. So, these stories tell about memory. They are here so forgetfulness doesn’t erase them.
The people in Greek mythology had it right. Despite their bashing babies against castle walls, pillaging foreign lands, mass murders in the backyard, raping, cooking sons, killing dad, impregnating mom. Despite all that, they believed in memory. The importance of it, how it created a sort of immortality for those gone. When Greeks introduced themselves, they said where they came from. Location, social status, family. You are tied into these, and it is your responsibility to give immortality and fame to your family as well as to yourself.
If you thought about her for more than 10 seconds, it’s because you cheated. You added in a family of cats, or had her talk to her pimp. Or you were trying to figure out how a quadriplegic could sweep a floor. Regardless, you’ve returned to me. She bored you. This is proof that novelty, like pain, produces numbness. You soon find a way to step back.
So these stories will not try to be interesting. They will in some way involve a homeless man with empty eye sockets, who could interest you for a moment. If you saw him in real life, you’d stare for a little, maybe clutch your purse, laugh, etc. You’d look at your friend or a street vendor, say, “wow, that guy is scary” and then go home, and forget about him by tomorrow morning. Not that you tried to forget…Still, you forget about best friends from 10th grade, forget about the faint scar on your right forearm, and forget about that documentary on theories on the ultimate fate of the universe, which scared you so bad when your were five that you hid yourself in the bathroom. Your family had to unlock the door with a hairpin. So, these stories tell about memory. They are here so forgetfulness doesn’t erase them.
The people in Greek mythology had it right. Despite their bashing babies against castle walls, pillaging foreign lands, mass murders in the backyard, raping, cooking sons, killing dad, impregnating mom. Despite all that, they believed in memory. The importance of it, how it created a sort of immortality for those gone. When Greeks introduced themselves, they said where they came from. Location, social status, family. You are tied into these, and it is your responsibility to give immortality and fame to your family as well as to yourself.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Excerpts from a poem I'm working on.
A man and a woman lay by each other in bed.
The man: “I love you. Forever and ever, I will.”
She blinks.
A woman and a man walk hand in hand through the park.
Woman: “I love you. Forever and ever, I will.”
Man: “Uh.”
In a 1939, a Nazi Gauleiter (District Leader) and his Jewish mistress lay together in bed.
Mistress: “I love you. Forever and ever, I will.” Then, the wife walked in.
Two weeks later, soldiers gassed the wife to death in a gas chamber.
A man eats dinner with his brother.
Man: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
The brother punches the man, and calls him a faggot.
A woman sits with her sister. Christmas.
Woman: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
Two day later, the sister removes $500 from the woman’s bank account,
and escapes into New Jersey.
A man and his foster son sit in the living room, and play a football video game.
The man: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
The Orphan later steals the foster father’s girlfriend.
**************************
They kneaded the thigh, their breaths heavy and warm and wet. Their breaths swirled. A cup of water boiled and the steam
waved over you. The touch was like a rag rubbed over your chest. His breathing, theirs--wet, from the throat. They moaned from the throat. They made little jokes, and rubbed, and breathed, and coughed, and moaned, and made another little joke, and breathed, breathed, breathed.
They washed their hands, and closed the door behind them. Your father played poker in the dining room. Your mother slept on the couch in the living room.
**************************
Our enemies kneaded us. They pounded us flat on a pan. They sliced us out with a cookie-cutter in the shape of people. They flipped us out and left us in the over for 9 minutes, temperature 350 degrees Fahrenheit. They left us to cool on a windowsill. They decorated us with icing. They gave me 3 eyes, and you five nipples. They gave you a frown, and rested a smile on my stomach.
“Delicious!”
Hours later, at 8:43pm, we plopped into the toilet.
You: “No!”
Me: “What?”
You: “Nothing.”
Me: “Please.”
You: “What?”
Me: “Nothing.”
You: “Please.” And then you began to climb out.
Me: “No!
You: “Shut up!”
Me: “What?”
You: “You going to hit me?”
Me: “What? No!”
You: “Then what made you angry?”
Me: “Nothing.”
You: “I’m leaving.”
Me: “No!”
You: “Why shouldn’t I leave?”
Me: “Please.”
You: “Why shouldn’t I leave?”
Me: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
Because what should be ours shall be ours. We’ve waited longer than a cold night in which our knuckles fall to white, chipped skin. We have waited so long that we ignore the beggar asking for 80 cents. We’ve been lonely for so long that we hope for others to live alone too. We bathe in our victories. We bump into people on the street and do not say “excuse me.” We curse when we get a problem wrong on the quiz, and punch the wall when a stranger calls us a “bitch” in the hallway. We count the times they cursed us, we write the number in our journals. We sigh because the Iraq War has yet to become WWIII.
We have forgotten the names of our aunts and uncles, and we refuse to call people we’ve only known for a week. We imagine people talk about us behind our backs, and we expect that tomorrow, the sun will rise, and the moon will resemble a man’s face, and it will rain, or it will not. It snows, or the sun shines. Someone shoots someone else, or someone robs someone else. Someone emerges from the womb, and someone slips on the wedding ring. The sun rises, and the moon dissolves in the light. The sun falls, and the moon brightens. The stars hover in place for centuries. Shit smells like shit and flowers like flowers, and flowers dipped in shit smell like shit. The sun will rise.
The man: “I love you. Forever and ever, I will.”
She blinks.
A woman and a man walk hand in hand through the park.
Woman: “I love you. Forever and ever, I will.”
Man: “Uh.”
In a 1939, a Nazi Gauleiter (District Leader) and his Jewish mistress lay together in bed.
Mistress: “I love you. Forever and ever, I will.” Then, the wife walked in.
Two weeks later, soldiers gassed the wife to death in a gas chamber.
A man eats dinner with his brother.
Man: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
The brother punches the man, and calls him a faggot.
A woman sits with her sister. Christmas.
Woman: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
Two day later, the sister removes $500 from the woman’s bank account,
and escapes into New Jersey.
A man and his foster son sit in the living room, and play a football video game.
The man: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
The Orphan later steals the foster father’s girlfriend.
**************************
They kneaded the thigh, their breaths heavy and warm and wet. Their breaths swirled. A cup of water boiled and the steam
waved over you. The touch was like a rag rubbed over your chest. His breathing, theirs--wet, from the throat. They moaned from the throat. They made little jokes, and rubbed, and breathed, and coughed, and moaned, and made another little joke, and breathed, breathed, breathed.
They washed their hands, and closed the door behind them. Your father played poker in the dining room. Your mother slept on the couch in the living room.
**************************
Our enemies kneaded us. They pounded us flat on a pan. They sliced us out with a cookie-cutter in the shape of people. They flipped us out and left us in the over for 9 minutes, temperature 350 degrees Fahrenheit. They left us to cool on a windowsill. They decorated us with icing. They gave me 3 eyes, and you five nipples. They gave you a frown, and rested a smile on my stomach.
“Delicious!”
Hours later, at 8:43pm, we plopped into the toilet.
You: “No!”
Me: “What?”
You: “Nothing.”
Me: “Please.”
You: “What?”
Me: “Nothing.”
You: “Please.” And then you began to climb out.
Me: “No!
You: “Shut up!”
Me: “What?”
You: “You going to hit me?”
Me: “What? No!”
You: “Then what made you angry?”
Me: “Nothing.”
You: “I’m leaving.”
Me: “No!”
You: “Why shouldn’t I leave?”
Me: “Please.”
You: “Why shouldn’t I leave?”
Me: “I love you, forever and ever, I will.”
Because what should be ours shall be ours. We’ve waited longer than a cold night in which our knuckles fall to white, chipped skin. We have waited so long that we ignore the beggar asking for 80 cents. We’ve been lonely for so long that we hope for others to live alone too. We bathe in our victories. We bump into people on the street and do not say “excuse me.” We curse when we get a problem wrong on the quiz, and punch the wall when a stranger calls us a “bitch” in the hallway. We count the times they cursed us, we write the number in our journals. We sigh because the Iraq War has yet to become WWIII.
We have forgotten the names of our aunts and uncles, and we refuse to call people we’ve only known for a week. We imagine people talk about us behind our backs, and we expect that tomorrow, the sun will rise, and the moon will resemble a man’s face, and it will rain, or it will not. It snows, or the sun shines. Someone shoots someone else, or someone robs someone else. Someone emerges from the womb, and someone slips on the wedding ring. The sun rises, and the moon dissolves in the light. The sun falls, and the moon brightens. The stars hover in place for centuries. Shit smells like shit and flowers like flowers, and flowers dipped in shit smell like shit. The sun will rise.
Friday, December 7, 2007
A Brief Analysis of Three Literary Works
THE BIBLE
Well, as the Torah moves along, it drags on painfully. But the point of the books, of course, is to be a record. Anyway, the thing I love about it, in a literary sense, is that it doesn’t explicate itself. It asks the reader to analyze the passages because all it does, when it tells its story, is declare the details. It’s like Hemingway’s bare-bone style, but not as boring.
I believe that the best literature is the literature that simply paints a picture with words. “So-and-so did this, and this resulted from so-and-so’s actions.” It shows what the characters do and believe, but it doesn’t outline. In a way, the best authors are like God—as you read their stories, you don’t know what it is they are up to, exactly, but it’s definitely some ambitious shit.
Genesis, Judges, and the books of Samuel are among the most awesome examples of storytelling. I have written stories based on stories from these books, and I promise you I will write more based on these stories.
In the book of Job, God says some of the most mean, funny shit I’ve ever heard.
“The Golden Rule” is the most fool-proof rule ever. If everybody followed it, then all atrocities would stop…I think…the problem lies in how people interpret this rule…this is something to get back to, during a future entry…
Parallelism may be my new favorite literary technique.
***
THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS
- Awesome. Concise. About 260 words, and still one of the best writings ever, at least in English. Again: I love parallelism and repetition.
- Repetition/allusion/quotes/parallelism works best when each reoccurrence produces a different effect from the last.
When Lincoln says, “we cannot dedicate…we cannot consecrate…we cannot hallow…” each reiteration builds the power of his lines. And notice the word change. The three words (dedicate, consecrate, hallow) can all be used in the same place, though their meanings differ in slight but significant manners. Therefore, notice how he uses them successively. And with each word change, a picture forms about how important the sacrifices were. Each word adds a demension to his description of the effects of the soldiers' deaths. So, even though he pretty much says the same thing three times, each time produces a different effect.
When you write, don’t repeat for the sake of repetition. If you repeat the word “peaches” once, the second time must provide an effect different from the effect of the first. Otherwise, the second time might as well be cut. But if any reiteration can cause a different effect from the earlier statements, then the repetition carries real weight. To see what I mean, read this poem I wrote:
Fruits on a tree.
Peaches.
A woman.
Peaches.
See what I mean? Context means everything.
And, yes, I am horny.
***
CATCH-22
Profound. It’s definitely one of the most funny things I’ve ever come across, but what makes it’s humor striking is that it’s almost done about of desperation. As if no one could bare reading it unless it were funny. You see, it’s also one of the most bitter things I’ve come across. He's irreverent and respectful at the same time.
Great use of repetition. Heller repeats himself a lot, but never bores me. Context, context, context.
I feel that this book is pretty much beyond a serious attempt of analysis at this time.
I plan on rereading the whole thing by the time I’m thirty. Also, the Bible. And maybe Huck Finn.
***
Irrelevant notes (perhaps the title of my autobiography)
- I only break my own rules when I’m writing for the sake of writing. But when I polish myself, I’m a freaking perfectionisto.
- “to be” verbs suck.
- The subjunctive sucks.
- Negatives suck. Never use them…d’oh.
- When people overuse “to be” verbs, the subjunctive, and negatives, they are (d’oh) being (d’oh) lazy.
Well, as the Torah moves along, it drags on painfully. But the point of the books, of course, is to be a record. Anyway, the thing I love about it, in a literary sense, is that it doesn’t explicate itself. It asks the reader to analyze the passages because all it does, when it tells its story, is declare the details. It’s like Hemingway’s bare-bone style, but not as boring.
I believe that the best literature is the literature that simply paints a picture with words. “So-and-so did this, and this resulted from so-and-so’s actions.” It shows what the characters do and believe, but it doesn’t outline. In a way, the best authors are like God—as you read their stories, you don’t know what it is they are up to, exactly, but it’s definitely some ambitious shit.
Genesis, Judges, and the books of Samuel are among the most awesome examples of storytelling. I have written stories based on stories from these books, and I promise you I will write more based on these stories.
In the book of Job, God says some of the most mean, funny shit I’ve ever heard.
“The Golden Rule” is the most fool-proof rule ever. If everybody followed it, then all atrocities would stop…I think…the problem lies in how people interpret this rule…this is something to get back to, during a future entry…
Parallelism may be my new favorite literary technique.
***
THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS
- Awesome. Concise. About 260 words, and still one of the best writings ever, at least in English. Again: I love parallelism and repetition.
- Repetition/allusion/quotes/parallelism works best when each reoccurrence produces a different effect from the last.
When Lincoln says, “we cannot dedicate…we cannot consecrate…we cannot hallow…” each reiteration builds the power of his lines. And notice the word change. The three words (dedicate, consecrate, hallow) can all be used in the same place, though their meanings differ in slight but significant manners. Therefore, notice how he uses them successively. And with each word change, a picture forms about how important the sacrifices were. Each word adds a demension to his description of the effects of the soldiers' deaths. So, even though he pretty much says the same thing three times, each time produces a different effect.
When you write, don’t repeat for the sake of repetition. If you repeat the word “peaches” once, the second time must provide an effect different from the effect of the first. Otherwise, the second time might as well be cut. But if any reiteration can cause a different effect from the earlier statements, then the repetition carries real weight. To see what I mean, read this poem I wrote:
Fruits on a tree.
Peaches.
A woman.
Peaches.
See what I mean? Context means everything.
And, yes, I am horny.
***
CATCH-22
Profound. It’s definitely one of the most funny things I’ve ever come across, but what makes it’s humor striking is that it’s almost done about of desperation. As if no one could bare reading it unless it were funny. You see, it’s also one of the most bitter things I’ve come across. He's irreverent and respectful at the same time.
Great use of repetition. Heller repeats himself a lot, but never bores me. Context, context, context.
I feel that this book is pretty much beyond a serious attempt of analysis at this time.
I plan on rereading the whole thing by the time I’m thirty. Also, the Bible. And maybe Huck Finn.
***
Irrelevant notes (perhaps the title of my autobiography)
- I only break my own rules when I’m writing for the sake of writing. But when I polish myself, I’m a freaking perfectionisto.
- “to be” verbs suck.
- The subjunctive sucks.
- Negatives suck. Never use them…d’oh.
- When people overuse “to be” verbs, the subjunctive, and negatives, they are (d’oh) being (d’oh) lazy.
Awesome quotes and the state of women
"He had decided to live forever or die in the attempt, and his only mission each time he went up was to come down alive."
- Joseph Heller, Catch-22
***
"I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all; believe none of us."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
***
16 And Jesus said, Are ye also yet without understanding?
17 Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught?
18 But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man.
19 For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies:
20 These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man.
- The Gospel of Matthew
***
"All right, then, I'll go to hell!"
- Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
***
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go, —
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
- Shakespeare, sonnet 130
***
Holy shit, where are the quotes by women? It kind of disturbs me--In preparation for a speech regarding people who smoke, I researched cool famous people who smoked. And while I could easily find intellectual, go-getting dudes who chomped down cigars, I had trouble finding women who happened to smoke and weren't movie stars. Where were the physicists? The writers? The politicians? They are in such short supply in the world, compared to bad-ass men. To find them, one must dig hard to find a woman with influence who isn't an actor. (I'll save this for another entry, but, honestly, actors [and a lot of writers, for that matter] contribute little to the world.)
Now, I myself haven't had much experience and exposure to women who have contributed to culture. Yes, I'm a big fan of Joyce Carol Oates (aka Ms. AWESOME). But I don't read that many female novelists. (For some reason, I just haven't had the urge to pick up a novel by Toni Morrison, and I dislike Emily Dickenson.) However, when I do look at women who have contributed to certain fields, the list is pretty small. Now, we can get into a big big big discussion here about why that is (culture, the patriarchal society, etc). But that isn't the point of this particular blog.
The point is immortality. The point is badassery (which is a word because I say so). My point is that I write this essay in the computer lab of Butler Library at Columbia University, and several stories above me, there is an papyrus fragment of the Odyssey, centuries old. Think: a poem created by a men (or men) 28 centuries ago is still read by thousands of people each year. Amazing.
- James Blundell (the first person to do a successful blood transfusion)
- Lester Wire (inventor of the modern traffic light)
- Abbas Ibn Firnas (inventor of revolutionary glass-manufactoring techniques, and one of the first people ever, if not the first, to attempt to fly.)
These men have gained immortality through their works. They have caused change, and influenced the others of those who lived after them. Their lives carried weight. Even if all human acts are futile, their acts approached the level of having true meaning.
So, women: do you want that kind of immortality? Or, if not, do you at least have a burning, obsessive ambition in you? (If you don't, you're probably a worthless leech.) I hope you live your life for more than just looking good. I hope you live your life for more than picking up old, rich men. A phat ass is a phat ass and big tits are big tits. One hot woman is another hot woman, if one doesn't take their personalities into consideration. Besides that, looks matter little. You get old, your tits sag, and guys stop checking you out. And during middle-age you will wonder, "What was done? What was done?" During middle-age, you will wonder if you lived for more than fucking and having children--because what's the point of having kids if the only point of having kids is just to have kids?
- Joseph Heller, Catch-22
***
"I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all; believe none of us."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
***
16 And Jesus said, Are ye also yet without understanding?
17 Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught?
18 But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man.
19 For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies:
20 These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man.
- The Gospel of Matthew
***
"All right, then, I'll go to hell!"
- Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
***
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go, —
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
- Shakespeare, sonnet 130
***
Holy shit, where are the quotes by women? It kind of disturbs me--In preparation for a speech regarding people who smoke, I researched cool famous people who smoked. And while I could easily find intellectual, go-getting dudes who chomped down cigars, I had trouble finding women who happened to smoke and weren't movie stars. Where were the physicists? The writers? The politicians? They are in such short supply in the world, compared to bad-ass men. To find them, one must dig hard to find a woman with influence who isn't an actor. (I'll save this for another entry, but, honestly, actors [and a lot of writers, for that matter] contribute little to the world.)
Now, I myself haven't had much experience and exposure to women who have contributed to culture. Yes, I'm a big fan of Joyce Carol Oates (aka Ms. AWESOME). But I don't read that many female novelists. (For some reason, I just haven't had the urge to pick up a novel by Toni Morrison, and I dislike Emily Dickenson.) However, when I do look at women who have contributed to certain fields, the list is pretty small. Now, we can get into a big big big discussion here about why that is (culture, the patriarchal society, etc). But that isn't the point of this particular blog.
The point is immortality. The point is badassery (which is a word because I say so). My point is that I write this essay in the computer lab of Butler Library at Columbia University, and several stories above me, there is an papyrus fragment of the Odyssey, centuries old. Think: a poem created by a men (or men) 28 centuries ago is still read by thousands of people each year. Amazing.
- James Blundell (the first person to do a successful blood transfusion)
- Lester Wire (inventor of the modern traffic light)
- Abbas Ibn Firnas (inventor of revolutionary glass-manufactoring techniques, and one of the first people ever, if not the first, to attempt to fly.)
These men have gained immortality through their works. They have caused change, and influenced the others of those who lived after them. Their lives carried weight. Even if all human acts are futile, their acts approached the level of having true meaning.
So, women: do you want that kind of immortality? Or, if not, do you at least have a burning, obsessive ambition in you? (If you don't, you're probably a worthless leech.) I hope you live your life for more than just looking good. I hope you live your life for more than picking up old, rich men. A phat ass is a phat ass and big tits are big tits. One hot woman is another hot woman, if one doesn't take their personalities into consideration. Besides that, looks matter little. You get old, your tits sag, and guys stop checking you out. And during middle-age you will wonder, "What was done? What was done?" During middle-age, you will wonder if you lived for more than fucking and having children--because what's the point of having kids if the only point of having kids is just to have kids?
Sexual Perversion at Columbia University
(Written around early March, 2007)
A November 2006 article for the New York Daily News said that Columbia University is a cesspool of S&M, sex in the Library, and naked parties. Said one student, “You go to dinner and then have sex.” Ladies and gentlemen, I am appalled at this university, at the students, at you, for not inviting me to these functions. Not that I’d do that shit. But be a little polite. Be considerate.
“Hey, want to participate in an orgy?” you say.
“Sorry, ****, but I can’t. Too much homework.”
**************************
Okay--the preceding text was my attempt to be funny (except the Daily News did write such an article). But, really, tell me how “hooking up” works. I’m lost on the subject. How do you go to dinner and then have sex?
The best advice I’ve heard—solid advice—is to be friendly, polite, and straightforward. Reasonably aggressive. Unfortunately, some men take this too far. Some go up to a woman and simply ask for sex. That’s weird. It’s bad to be the fifty-year-old standing on Broadway checking out college girls. It’s bad to be the drunken guy hitting on all the ladies at parties. It’s bad to be the class rapist.
I feel awful for women who have to put up with creeps. Butt-grabbing, staring, rapist creeps. I hear these stories—the non-so-serious and the serious—and I get a lukewarm tennis ball in my gut. These incidences are an invasion of a person’s property. If you were to grab a stranger’s ass without permission, you’re showing this person that you have no respect for them, that you think of that person as a means of getting off; their life, to you, is insignificant. It’s even worse when you’ve got stalker-type love. Stalker-type love exceeds lust in intensity, and can involve various types of stalking…such as internet stalking. O_o’
But it’s more complicated than men being perverts or possessive. Understand. In my old high school, I once saw this guy toss a girl cheek-first into a brick wall as if he were trying to put her in the hospital. Her whole body was flat against the brick wall, and she was laughing the whole time. This was flirting to those people. He was wooing her. (I repeat: he chucked her like a bag of sand.)
And, during other school days, other guys said things like, “Come here before I hit you!” or “Let me put my dick right here.” And this worked for them. Some girls were okay with that kind of stuff.
“But,” you may ask. “How can you stand here and scrutinize how other people—especially other men—go on with themselves sexually? You probably have the same thoughts. Haven’t you acted creepy?”
That’s not even a question. I’m 19 and male. Of course I want to fuck somebody, and of course I’ve acted creepy.
You may wonder how those incidences ended up. Well, dear reader, it’s none of your business. Because it’s not.
Still, I must say: I’ve never put my hands on someone without her and me already having that kind of understanding between us (no serious attachment necessary).
Anyway, imagine the conversations we’re supposed to have at naked parties.
A November 2006 article for the New York Daily News said that Columbia University is a cesspool of S&M, sex in the Library, and naked parties. Said one student, “You go to dinner and then have sex.” Ladies and gentlemen, I am appalled at this university, at the students, at you, for not inviting me to these functions. Not that I’d do that shit. But be a little polite. Be considerate.
“Hey, want to participate in an orgy?” you say.
“Sorry, ****, but I can’t. Too much homework.”
**************************
Okay--the preceding text was my attempt to be funny (except the Daily News did write such an article). But, really, tell me how “hooking up” works. I’m lost on the subject. How do you go to dinner and then have sex?
The best advice I’ve heard—solid advice—is to be friendly, polite, and straightforward. Reasonably aggressive. Unfortunately, some men take this too far. Some go up to a woman and simply ask for sex. That’s weird. It’s bad to be the fifty-year-old standing on Broadway checking out college girls. It’s bad to be the drunken guy hitting on all the ladies at parties. It’s bad to be the class rapist.
I feel awful for women who have to put up with creeps. Butt-grabbing, staring, rapist creeps. I hear these stories—the non-so-serious and the serious—and I get a lukewarm tennis ball in my gut. These incidences are an invasion of a person’s property. If you were to grab a stranger’s ass without permission, you’re showing this person that you have no respect for them, that you think of that person as a means of getting off; their life, to you, is insignificant. It’s even worse when you’ve got stalker-type love. Stalker-type love exceeds lust in intensity, and can involve various types of stalking…such as internet stalking. O_o’
But it’s more complicated than men being perverts or possessive. Understand. In my old high school, I once saw this guy toss a girl cheek-first into a brick wall as if he were trying to put her in the hospital. Her whole body was flat against the brick wall, and she was laughing the whole time. This was flirting to those people. He was wooing her. (I repeat: he chucked her like a bag of sand.)
And, during other school days, other guys said things like, “Come here before I hit you!” or “Let me put my dick right here.” And this worked for them. Some girls were okay with that kind of stuff.
“But,” you may ask. “How can you stand here and scrutinize how other people—especially other men—go on with themselves sexually? You probably have the same thoughts. Haven’t you acted creepy?”
That’s not even a question. I’m 19 and male. Of course I want to fuck somebody, and of course I’ve acted creepy.
You may wonder how those incidences ended up. Well, dear reader, it’s none of your business. Because it’s not.
Still, I must say: I’ve never put my hands on someone without her and me already having that kind of understanding between us (no serious attachment necessary).
Anyway, imagine the conversations we’re supposed to have at naked parties.
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